


Don't Threaten Me With A Good Time

by Yaoiphobic



Category: Raven Cycle - Maggie Stiefvater
Genre: F/M, M/M, Pining, adam is dead and so am i, and joins the dream pack with kavinsky, and shit goes down, basically tho, i dont know where this is gonna go but, kavinsky is alive au, let me live let me have all the angst i crave it, lots of conflict with blue and gansey IM SORRY, one more member of the dream pack is able to pull stuff from his dreams but im not telling who, one sided-prokopenko/kavinsky, oneshots, ronan cant handle himself after adam dies, ronan goes off the deep end, trans! skov
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2016-03-28
Updated: 2016-04-25
Packaged: 2018-05-29 15:26:26
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence, Major Character Death, Rape/Non-Con, Underage
Chapters: 4
Words: 3,246
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/6381886
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Yaoiphobic/pseuds/Yaoiphobic
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>The story goes like this: Once upon a time, a man named Adam Parrish had loyal friends, a full ride to Yale, and the callous but tender love of Ronan Lynch. Adam had his whole life in front of him, until one day a man on his way home from the bar after a long day at work hit him head on in the collision that took his life. It was a Wednesday. On Thursday, Ronan was called to the morgue to identify the body, leaving with shaking hands and a heart that felt for all the world like it had collapsed inside his chest. On Friday, Gansey returned from a trip to see Helen and was greeted with the trashed remains of Monmouth Manufacturing and Ronan's torn knuckles as he stood in front of the wreck he created.<br/>On Saturday, Ronan ditched Adam's funeral in favor of a bottle of Bacardi and the solid feel of his fists hitting the wall of his now too-empty bedroom. On Sunday, Ronan stopped talking to everyone but the Adam in his dreams, leaving his friends alone in their grief.<br/>On a Monday, almost a month later, he received a text from the one person who may be able to put a stop to the war waging in his head.<br/>--<br/>A series of one-shots centered on Ronan's life as a part of the dream pack following Adams death.</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. Disclaimer

**Author's Note:**

> If you would like to get a general idea/moodboard for what inspired me to do this so you know what to expect,  
> check out this post (http://7thlevels.tumblr.com/post/137350363493/screthistory-trc-aesthetic-the-dream-pack) as it's what I use to characterize the dream pack.  
> This playlist (https://open.spotify.com/user/1289690223/playlist/4oWKZySYZJm1lJPqFpIVXu)is what I listen to when writing this or working out plot and character stuff.  
> 

Click the next button for the first real chapter. (Sorry, still working on learning a03's layout!)

DISCLAIMER: Joseph Kavinsky is admittedly a terrible person, and though he was shaped into this person by his past, it does not excuse his actions or borderline-abusive behavior at time-- in canon or otherwise. Keep in mind that I do not condone or romanticize any of his actions, and if it comes across that way, please let me know. I am writing this fic to challenge myself as a writer and because despite Kavinsky's general terrible-ness, I do see pieces of me in him and writing him or writing about him helps me deal with those parts of myself.

TRIGGER WARNINGS FOR: mentions of past physical and sexual abuse (between a parent and their son, I will not say who to avoid spoilers), self harm, eating disorders, mentions of gender dysphoria (Skov is transgender in this fic), obviously alcohol and drug abuse, character death, language, sexual content, and just K and the gang being overall terrible people.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Ok hi I'm sorry I haven't put anything here yet, expect the actual start to be tomorrow. I just needed to get all of the description stuff out of the way before I lost focus. Thank u for clicking tho, stay posted.  
> UPDATE: 3/29/16: I plan to start this tonight after work! Expect an update soon! Thank you for waiting, those that are interested. (I was going to post last night but I passed out really early after a shit day at work, I apologize!)  
> If you would like to get a general idea/moodboard for what inspired me to do this so you know what to expect,  
> check out this post (http://7thlevels.tumblr.com/post/137350363493/screthistory-trc-aesthetic-the-dream-pack) as it's what I use to characterize the dream pack.  
> This playlist (https://open.spotify.com/user/1289690223/playlist/4oWKZySYZJm1lJPqFpIVXu)is what I listen to when writing this or working out plot and character stuff.


	2. dead heat

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> The actual first chapter. Lets kick things off in Kavinsky's POV.

  Ronan Lynch stood, an imposing form silhouetted against the night sky as he surveyed the small town of Henrietta, Virginia. His fists clenched and unclenched by his side violently, his nails marking white half-moons into his palms. The line of his shoulders was tense, and as Kavinsky watched from the heavily tinted window of his Mitsubishi, he noted the wetness on the other man's cheeks. Ronan Lynch, the coral snake in the grass, God among men, was crying. Kavinsky observed with heavily lidded eyes, committing to memory every tiny detail in Ronan's stance so that he may dream it later, relive this moment over and over until it seemed real. Though he knew that he was awake-- Or at least, he thought he knew, the scene in front of him seemed more like a dream than any of his ventures into the land of sleep. It was both disorienting and exhilarating to witness Ronan in such a state, and Kavinsky's heart did somersaults in his chest. _This may turn out to be interesting_ , Kavinsky speculated as he noted the broken beer bottles at Ronan's feet and the wicked curve of a tattoo he knew all too familiarly peeking out from beneath his sweat-soaked tank.

  In the month following the death of Adam Parrish, Ronan Lynch had been a conundrum, a living doll of sorts. He had become a glassy-eyed, lifeless version of the man Kavinsky had come to know. In every instance of Kavinsky seeing Ronan since the death of his one and only, he had seemed dull. Devoid of any emotion, Ronan simply went through the daily motions of life almost robotically. Even Kavinsky's taunts and jeers, usually so effective in getting a rise out of the middle Lynch brother, was met with that same impassive look and cold eyes. He followed what was left of his small group almost on instinct as if he wasn't quite sure what he was supposed to do with himself now that he wasn't one-half of a whole. In a month, Kavinsky had not seen Ronan utter a single word to either him or the trio he devoted most of his time to. Kavinsky supposed Ronan needed his time to grieve, remembered that once, there was a time where he had been through the same whirlwind of emotions. But he had given Ronan his month, and Kavinsky had long since buried his own feelings in a flurry of white powder, drinking and fucking and smoking away anything that came up in between. Besides, he was getting bored of just watching. He was ready for Ronan, whether the other man wanted it or not.

  Kavinsky sat up straighter, his eyes trained on Ronan's form as he sat heavily, his legs seeming to give from underneath him, disregarding the glass at his feet.  Kavinsky considered the sleek form of his phone in his hand before typing out a message with steady fingers.

**To: Princess Lynch**

   _whats_ _a man like me gotta do to get a snake like u down from that ledge lol_

Kavinsky saw the flash of Ronan's phone, dull through the back pocket of his jeans. If Ronan heard his text tone or felt the vibration through his pants, he didn't acknowledge it. Kavinsky was never shy of double texting. He tried again.

_i'm_ _not afraid to push you, but_ _i'd_   _rather not deal with the legal bullshit u feel?_ _i know u do._

Still nothing, though the subtle shift in Ronan's shoulders said that he knew someone was trying to get in touch with him. He pulled his phone out and frowned at it, but didn't flip it open. He dropped it down at his feet instead, turning his face to look over the town once more.

 _hey lynch fucking answer your texts_   _i_   _can see you looking at ur phone_

The ghost of a smile flitted over Kavinsky's sharp features. _Almost there_. He pushed again.

_don't make me come over there_

  Finally, this seemed to get a reaction out of Ronan, and with a hefty sigh and short, violent movements, he swiped his phone from its spot nestled between jagged pieces of glass, squinting at the words on the screen. After a long moment of complete stillness, his head turned around, surveying the bushes from under dark eyelashes. The light of the full moon highlighted the crest of his cheekbones, rendering him stark and apparition-like as he tried to catch sight of Kavinsky's perfectly concealed form. Kavinsky grinned his jackal grin and slid out of the car, shutting the door softly behind him so as to not alert Ronan to his position. He made his way carefully through the bushes, dodging stray branches as he pushed up the hill. Ronan squinted at him through the haze of alcohol still undoubtedly chugging steadily through his system. Kavinsky raised a hand in greeting, lighting a cigarette as he came to stand next to Ronan.

  Up close, Ronan was less of a man and more the idea of one. Deep bags lined his eyes more heavily than usual, and his face was missing its usual egotistical smirk. The carefully cultivated air of arrogance was gone, replaced with something new and void of any warmth. His knuckles were torn, the moon's light reflecting in the blood that was quickly drying over already scarred skin. 

  The most shocking of all of this, though, were his eyes. Dull and devoid of emotion, they regarded him with about as much interest as one would allow a sock found in the bottom of the hamper. Kavinsky, for reasons unknown to him, was equally frightened and thrilled at this. He took careful note of all of this, calculating what this meant and liking the odds. This was a Ronan he could shape, mold into something workable and make belong to him and only him. This was the beginning of something new, and it enthralled him. He said, "Listen, you don't have to say or do anything. All I want to know is this, get me: Do you want to get fucked up tonight or not?"

  Ronan said nothing, staring at up at him, his gaze still indifferent. After what seemed like a millennium of waiting to Kavinsky's drug-hazed mind, Ronan stood.

  Kavinsky's smile was made of daggers.  _Now_ , he thought,  _now is when things get interesting_.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I've finally started! I'm sorry this is short, but we have to start somewhere and beginnings are hard. This is my first actual Real Life Fic so feedback would be cool. Thank u for reading my angsty garbage.  
> If you would like to follow my trc blog, its http://josephkavlinsky.tumblr.com  
> EDIT 6/2/16 fixed some technical errors that were bothering me


	3. asphalt

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> And now, we meet the dream pack.

  Ronan watched Kavinsky hold two fingers against Skov's head, a mockery of the gun he now knew lay nestled between Trojan Bareskins and stacks of dreamt-up bills in the glovebox of Kavinsky's Mitsubishi. Skov skewed his lips into a snarl that quickly dissolved into the laughter of the drunk and boisterous as he lay spread-eagled in the backseat of the BMW, one of his legs dangling carelessly out of the open door. Jiang, moving from his spot leaning against the side of the Supra, made a grab for the bottle of Smirnoff in Swan's outstretched hand. When he was unsuccessful, he instead knelt in the grass next to his car and did a line off of his arm, following the trail until it ran dry and then coming up for air with a lazy smile. Ronan took a heavy drag of his cigarette, a habit he'd picked up recently from Kavinsky. He sat in the front seat of the BMW, one hand resting on the steering wheel and the other draped over the window, watching smoke curl into the breeze from the corner of his eye. In the two months since Kavinsky had approached him and offered him a different life, Ronan had not spoken a word to him or the rest of the pack. Of course, in the three months since Adam's death, Ronan hadn't said a word to anyone, but he figured that was beside the point.

  Next to him, Kavinsky shifted in his seat, decidedly having had enough of pestering Skov. He turned his head to Ronan, noting his stare with a lazy grin, and leaned over in his seat to try and snatch the cigarette from Ronan's hand. Ronan shifted his shoulders, keeping it out of reach. Kavinsky made a rude gesture and then dug into the sides of the seats until he procured his own pack, having fallen there earlier. Through the drugs and booze chugging through Kavinsky's system, Ronan was surprised for only a moment that he had even remembered it was there. Kavinsky was a puzzle, and Ronan had begun the tedious process of putting together the pieces, the first of which being this: Kavinsky had a eidetic memory. When Swan had mentioned it in an offhand comment, Ronan had felt like he had missed out on something that had been right in front of his eyes the whole time. With how perfectly Kavinsky was able to recreate items in his dreams, it was the only logical explanation.  
  
  Prokopenko picked himself up slowly from the ground, tilting his face up into the late afternoon sun. He had, at Kavinsky's insistence, tried his hand at a fight with Jiang, only to be taken out in minutes. Proko had more muscle compared to Jiang's lean body, but Jiang was fast. Jiang, at five feet five inches, had easily overtaken Proko's taller form, and the latter had spent the past half-hour lying in the grass, recovering from the blows to the side of the head that Jiang's fists had afforded him. He brought a hand up to the side of his face, wrinkling his nose at the blood that came away on his fingertips. His right eye was already blackening, and he was still a bit unsteady on his feet. Jiang was very, very fast.

  Ronan had spent the past two months as the sixth wheel of the near-impenetrable force that was Kavinsky's pack of dogs, always on the sidelines, always observing. In this time, he had come to think of the men surrounding him less of people and more of animals, succumbing to a hierarchy that they seemed to fall in on instinct. Kavinsky was their king, and his word was near-law. He rarely exercised his control on them, however, and was more content to sit back and watch as they tore into whatever prey would strike their fancy, whether it be a cooler full of beer or a car full of freshmen from the local public school. It wasn't hard to see how Kavinsky had earned the reputation that he carried on his shoulders as proudly as most carried degrees and merits. Ronan hadn't meant to become so integrated into the pack, but from the moment he had shown up at Kavinsky's side to one of their gatherings, he had become an unquestioned part of the pecking order, and the others sought to find him a place in the food chain on top of which Kavinsky held as alpha.

  Kavinsky was a walking paradox in every sense of the word, the easy grin on his face at odds with the tense lines of his shoulders and the deep bags lining his eyes. He would deliver death blows with the same intensity that he would allow a friendly slap on the back. Ronan pulled from his dreams sparingly, only bringing back with him what he needed and leaving what he didn't, but Kavinsky seemed to be unable to resist the temptations the world of sleep had to offer him. He took, and he took, seemingly having no reservations. You wanted drugs, he would drop them at your doorstep the next day. You needed an ID to get you into the grand opening of that bar in the city, it was in your wallet the next time you opened it. You needed something explosive to put power behind your words when your best attempts at being civil failed, it was yours for the taking for a price you set yourself.  
  
  Kavinsky didn't deal in money. He had no need, not when his family had everything he could ever need, not when five minutes and a blue pill could give him all the wealth he wanted and then some. No, Kavinsky didn't want your money-- he wanted your secrets, he wanted what you knew and who you knew and everything that this information could offer him. Ronan wasn't sure Kavinsky knew what he was doing with all the wisdom this business brought him, but he didn't need bother with the logistics of such workings. This, he left to Jiang.

  Jiang was the one who knew how to use the information Kavinsky gathered. He could take an offhand comment about the Judge's wife chatting with the cashier at the supermarket and turn it into a scandalous string of adultery, tarnishing an otherwise pristine reputation, and he delighted in doing just that. Among the many reasons people didn't mess with Kavinsky's pack, Jiang's infinite connections and complete disdain for keeping civil relations with those that challenged Kavinsky's rule was arguably the prime factor in their continued rein. It was also the reason the authorities looked the other way when the dream pack was on the prowl. Jiang's father was a world renowned lawyer, and as long as Jiang was performing in school, he pretended not to notice when his son was caught going 50 over the speed limit or drinking himself blind with the rest of the pack. It was an unspoken agreement, one that kept Kavinsky's dogs on the streets instead of locked up behind bars for indefinite spans of time.

  If Jiang was the brains, Skov was the brawn, and he carried it with the intensity of one used to a life of violence. The son of two professional wrestlers, his life was a never ending string of bruised knuckles and the sound of fists hitting vinyl. You so much as looked at any member of the group wrong, it was Skov you dealt with. Skov, who was six foot five inches of dark skin and muscle over bone. He was the center of vicious attention. Whether you wanted to notice the blood dripping down his chin or not, it was there and it demanded you keep an eye on him, demanded you to take to what he was offering lest you become the next body behind his fists.

  Where Skov demanded your attention, Swan coxed it from you almost effortlessly. He was the laugh that silenced the crowd, the smile that could break up the vicious tension that Kavinsky could create just by walking into a room. Swan lived his life in a series of thirty second intervals, his attention shifting as easily as the sky in the midst of a storm. He was the envy of every sleep-deprived college student, always full of pent up energy, ready to burst. Swan would be laughing one moment and pulling a knife on you the next, depending on how his mood struck him. When the world become too much, Swan was there with a cigarette offered between his fingers and a filthy joke on the tip of his tongue, ready to talk you down from the edge you had brought yourself to.

  Prokopenko was at the bottom of the food chain and the shadow at the corner of your vision, disappearing when you turned to face him full on. Where Matthew merely came from a dream, Proko was the embodiment of one. It was apparent in every step he took, in the way he held himself when made to speak to anyone not within his immediate circle of friends. He was the ghost of a boy lost to Kavinsky's recklessness, and served as a constant reminder of what could be. You could be brought back, but you would never be the same.

  Ronan hadn't yet been made aware of his place in the hierarchy, but he wasn't sure if he wanted to know. Knowing meant accepting his place in the dream pack, meant admitting that a part of him was gone, lost forever. Ronan was just barely finding his footing in this new world that he had allowed himself into. For now, his spot in this life was undetermined, and for now, it could wait.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> 2 chapters in can we do a third in three days lets see how it goes  
> again feedback is cool thank u for reading ily guys


	4. muscle memory

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> grow a thicker skin.

  When Ronan was eight years old, his mother introduced him to the concept of dry ice.

  It had stunned and intrigued him. How was it that something that was meant to soothe burns could hurt him as if it were fire itself? Aurora had calmly explained to him in the gentle voice she reserved for Ronan and Matthew (and not Declan) that the ice wouldn't actually burn him in the same way as fire would, it was just so cold that it had the inverse effect that ice normally did. This was something that perplexed Ronan, and he spent days dwelling on how it was this could happen. It had felt to him, at that moment, like everything he knew about the laws of the world had simultaneously crumpled in on itself and been remade into something new. Not everything was as it seemed.

  This was how he felt about Joseph Kavinsky.

  The man was a whirlwind. Like Swan, his moods changed with the seasons and he had a penchant for laughing in a way that made chills run up your spine. Unlike Swan, however, Kavinsky made a point to assert himself as dominant in every situation he encountered. Akin to a dog that was never trained to present its belly to a human in a show of submission, Kavinsky would sooner bite the hand that fed him than allow it to scratch behind his ears. The cocaine did little to improve on this, instead amplifying his thirst for blood tenfold and rendering him a cold-blooded beast dead-set on becoming king. He was terrifying for no reason other than that he had never been taught to be anything but.

  And yet, a king needed to be ambigious. He needed to be able to run his enemies through with a knife and then turn to shake his allies' hand in a show of good natured camaraderie. Kavinsky failed in this. Sometimes, Kavinsky's smile could stretch so far across his face that Ronan thought it would split in two. This would seem for all the world like a good sign, something to look for in an ally. This wasn't the case with Kavinsky, not when that same smile usually followed bloodshed and carnage. He was not a man for simple pleasures, easily seen in his choice of cars and substances and company. 

  

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I have no excuse for not updating this. Inspiration is a fleeting thing and I'm much more likely to be writing original works than fic such as this. Shout out to Pr0ko on tumblr for adding me to their list of fav trc fics! It's given me a little push of motivation to add this snippet.
> 
> Anyway, this little piece goes out to ADHD, since apparently I am totally unable to stay interested in anything for more than three seconds. As an apology, take this tiny piece of a chapter. This speck. I'm sorry!!! My motivation has been going to OC's and Overwatch lately.


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